


Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of John's Butt (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

by buttsnax



Series: Portentous Omens And Ominous Portents [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Batman - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, brown world, cornhole, elliptical machine, hairless snake pit, m/m - Freeform, meat torpedo, special crevice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John!" Sherlock said. "I am gay!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Holmes And The Mystery Of John's Butt (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Batman.

Sherlock was sitting in his reading chair, reading, when the door opened and he heard people speaking.

“And this is my house, uh, obviously.” Sherlock deduced John was talking because it was John’s voice.

The voice was interrupted from its awkward stumbling by a sharp giggle.

A woman, then. So John was trying to get laid. Sherlock smirked from his chair and tried to imagine what sex with a woman felt like. He wondered if it was anything like cottage cheese.

“I don’t care about your house, silly,” said the female voice, taking on a more sultry tone. “But I do care about your bedroom.”

“You’re a saucy minx,” said John, because he was British and that’s how they talk. Sherlock knew this because he was also British.

There was more giggling, and then sloppy, wet noises. Sherlock sighed and closed his book with a loud snap. The couple didn’t take note, but instead simply hurried up the stairs with a loud clatter, because they were going to have sex with each other.

Sherlock was no longer in the mood for reading. He set his book aside and brooded. Distantly, a door slammed upstairs. He thought about the nature of man, about the bond he had forged with John, about good and evil, and the ways men could change the world. Sound drifted down to his ears from above, but he heard it only peripherally.

“. . . oh yes, oh yes, oh yes . . .”

He thought about the people he knew, and the web of relationships each spun about him. He dwelt briefly on how alone he felt, and from there he branched out, his mind spiraling toward each person in his own web, analyzing, deducing--thundering down a thousand blind alleys of what could have been or what might still be.

“God, just like that! Keep going-!”

What still could be indeed. Everything Sherlock had accomplished thus far was irrelevant, but the future was a matrix of infinite possibilities. Too long had he dwelled in his head, lost in a sea of deduction and logic when the very essence of humanity lay in taking action--in damning the consequences and grasping life with both hands!

Sherlock barely realized he had stood up from his chair. His eyes blazed with passion. He threw back his head and announced to the world:

“I’m gay!”

The noises upstairs stopped.

Fueled by the righteous fire of action, Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. _I’m gay_ , he whispered to himself. He didn’t stop to knock or even use the doorknob; he crashed into the bedroom door and it exploded inward with a thunderous clap and a small shower of splinters. The woman screamed, and instinctively clawed at the sheets to cover her nudity and the shameful act she had been a party to.

“John!” Sherlock said. “I am gay!”

Panic had turned to anger and John’s woman, who probably couldn’t deduce herself out of a five-way gang bang, began cursing him. The words slid off Sherlock like the sweat of a muscle queen high on ecstasy at a circuit party. He was gay now, and her vagina-laced words were foreign to him. Without breaking eye contact with John, Sherlock covered the ground between the door and the bed with a single bound, and grabbed the screaming woman-thing before him.

“. . . the fuck is wrong with you, you goddamn freak?! You can’t just barge intffff mmmmmf ggggrrrrrrmmmmmmmm!” She tried to finish her rant, but Sherlock’s hand covered her mouth.

In barely the space of a second he used his momentum to pitch her out the window in an earsplitting clatter of shattering glass. She probably died.

“What the hell is going on?” began John as Sherlock turned back to him from the window.

“I have deduced,” Sherlock intoned, “that you are also gay.”

“I am?” asked John, puzzled.

Sherlock put his wiener in John’s cornhole.

“Yes,” cried Sherlock dramatically as he stuffed John’s special crevice with his meat torpedo. “I deduced this just now!”

“Wow,” said John as Sherlock’s twenty-inch anaconda wriggled its way through his hairless snake pit. “I _am_ gay! Otherwise I’d never be having gay sex like this! How did you know?”

Sherlock continued to thrust into John’s brown world.

“Why, it’s elementary my queer Watson,” he replied, reaching around John’s torso to grasp his friend's turgid schlong and give it a tug. “I simply realized that I wanted to put things in your butt, and this was the only way.”

“I feel . . . safe and cared for with you,” John huffed between strokes as Sherlock pounded his anus furiously.

“I’m . . . glad!” grunted Sherlock, gliding his thirty-five-inch penis in and out of John with the smoothness of an elliptical machine. It was very gay.

“John,” he said, gripping John’s hips as he plundered his friend’s chocolate canal with his seventy-inch dong. “I’m going to—”

The wall exploded.

Wood splinters lacerated Sherlock’s face and neck and the force of the explosion knocked him off the bed. A dresser, launched into the air by the force of the explosion, landed on him, a jagged wood corner digging deep into his flesh and pinning him to the floor.

Dazed, he tried to reach out for John, but pain quickly overwhelmed all other concerns. A dark shape stepped into the ragged smoking hole that had been the bedroom’s east wall. Sherlock tried to make out the figure but his eyes wouldn’t focus. He couldn’t feel his legs.

The man was tall and broad, and his silhouette so dark Sherlock took him as a shadow at first. Rubble crunched under his feet as he advanced on Sherlock. Sherlock tried feebly to free himself but his legs wouldn’t respond, and he felt something tear inside him as he struggled against the weight that pinned him down. A warm wetness bathed his entire left side.

The man came closer. Sherlock could see him now, through the haze of smoke and panic and fear. “No . . .” he breathed, before a gloved fist pounded into his chest, driving away the last of his breath. Through the fog of terror he felt something break.

John grasped the bed, disoriented. He had a few scrapes, and what would likely become nasty bruises in the morning, but as a whole appeared to be unharmed.

“Who . . . ?” he began.

“I’m Batman,” said Batman.

“Why would you do this?” John demanded.

“I’m Batman,” said Batman.

“I don’t under-” John was silenced by a finger to his lips. The masked crusader held John’s gaze.

“I’m Batman.”

He scooped John up into his arms, with barely a glance toward Sherlock, and stepped through the hole he had blasted. The smoke had cleared now, and Sherlock watched Batman fly away into the starlit night with John, whose asshole he had just recently plowed, because they were gay now. As he slumped in a puddle of his own blood, his consciousness faded away.

On drawing his last breath, Sherlock heard a whisper carried on the night wind.

“I’m Batman.”


End file.
